The Tetra War_Fractured Peace

by Michael Ryan

  The only possible citizen response was to grant the Guritain government as much authority and funding as it needed to deal with the potential threats.

  If it occurred to anyone to question why the most significant buildup of Guritain military forces took place after the end of a war that had lasted decades, they kept their questions to themselves. Challenging authority had always been frowned upon in Guritain culture, and the new specter of nonspecific danger was accepted as legitimate without open debate.

  After the attack in Mexico City, outrageous new expenditures on speculative hardware became politically feasible almost overnight. Military providers enjoyed an unprecedented boom, and the prices of their stocks skyrocketed. Patriotism bordering on zealotry grew indistinguishable from the unthinking support of rabid fans cheering for their favorite team in the Earth Cup Tournament.

  The world was ready for war.

  All that was needed was an adequate enemy.

  The Purvas Urban Assault & Defense Training Facilities were designed to mimic an actual city, sans civilians. Once my arm healed and Callie’s emotional scars had faded, we’d requested and been granted a return to active service. We had to call in a few favors to get assigned to urban training because the vast majority of our battlefield experience was in jungles and deserts far away from population centers.

  But what’s the point of being a war hero if you can’t get a respected colonel to sign off on a chapter 47-23b form?

  The decision to return to active duty had been a difficult one for us both, but after the death of our children at the hands of terrorists, it had been the only logical one. We’d been left with a vacuum nothing could ever fill, and in the weeks following the attack, I’d watched with mounting concern as Callie had drifted from grief to hopelessness, listless and lost. I knew her as well as she knew herself, and I’d seen the pain in her eyes every morning when we woke and each night as we went to sleep.

  I had spent enough time in the service to recognize the signs of suicidal ideation, and it had been increasingly clear with each passing day that Callie saw no reason to continue now that her dreams were dead. Without any structure or driving force to guide her actions, she was a rudderless boat lost at sea, and I knew that it was just a matter of time before she chose the relative peace of endless sleep to the suffering of her memories of what might have been, reliving the death of our future every waking minute.

  Driven though I was by rage and visions of revenge, we ultimately chose to return to active duty because without a purpose, neither of us had a reason to live. When we decided to go back to the only existence we’d known for a decade, it wasn’t to change the world for the better or out of starry-eyed dreams of adventure and glory, but rather because we had nothing else, and at least the service would offer us direction and a chance to be so busy with the business of killing that we wouldn’t have any time to reflect on what had been stolen from us.

  We were under no obligation to return to full-time active duty, but once we made the decision, we never spoke of it again. I think Callie was relieved to put the past behind us; I know I was. After thorough physicals and psych examinations designed to weed out the suicidal or unhinged, we were assigned to training squad Leopard, Fifth Platoon, Charlie Company, of the Ninth Regiment.

  Our training began on a cold, wet Monday morning with a run. Thankfully, Callie and I had remained fit after settling down on our little farm, and we’d maintained a daily routine of running and exercise, but I was still anxious to get fitted into new armor. I loved the feeling of power amplification the suits provided. A suited soldier could run and jump like a deer, could lift ten times their body weight, and felt as close to invulnerable as was possible without resorting to hallucination.

  “Move it!” our training instructor, Sergeant Vabintine, shouted. “We’ve barely hit five K and some of you slugs are already breathing heavy. Those of you in the rear better lay off the desserts and put in extra PT until your times improve.”

  We finished our run at the fifteen K mark. Vabintine let us take a break, and we introduced ourselves to the others in our squad for the first time: Sergeant Abrel Velesment and his partner Sergeant Mallsin Vestale, both Guritain veterans with over ten years of service, and Corporal Neal Smith and his partner Corporal Sandie West, full-blooded humans who’d never been off-planet before. Their combat experience had come in the Southern regions, including six months in-country during the Verlanidian Offense. That pincer movement had resulted in so much death that the Amazon River had flowed crimson for a week.

  And then there was Corporal Cuelein Voolmester and his partner Corporal Dantie Boolestion. The youngest of the squad, he was a Guritain who’d just reached his fifth year of service; she was a reformed Tedesconian who’d proven her loyalty to the Gurts in combat. Neither of them had ever been to Earth.

  The eight of us constituted the Leopard Squad.

  Barring a service-ending injury or a rare in-training death, the eight of us would graduate or fail together. This Gurt custom was logical and straightforward: in the advanced training schools, a squad couldn’t graduate unless everyone passed.

  It was extremely rare for a team to fail.

  “Let’s go, boys and girls,” Vabintine called out as he got to his feet. We piled into a service transport that drove us around the base. It was laid out like a major downtown center, although most of the buildings were only façades. There were no signs of life other than an occasional civilian maintenance worker.

  “Looks like the aftermath of the zombie apocalypse,” Sandie said.

  “Or like a sisalikalaur got loose,” Neal replied.

  “Maybe the Teds genetically engineered a flesh-eating sisalikalaur zombie,” Cuelein said, joining in the fun.

  My mind flashed with memories of carnivorous attacks on Purvas, and I said, “Maybe a–”

  “Listen up,” Vabintine said, interrupting our joking around. “On training days, this area will be brimming with people. Command sends us all the fresh cadets we can handle. Make note of the cityscape. Nothing’s happening: no people and no vehicles. It’s going to shock you how different the city feels after a homeless vagrant tosses a grenade at you without warning.”

  He eyed us and offered a chilling grin. “When you’re on urban patrol, anything and everything can be a threat.”

  We pulled to a stop in front of a row of structures that could have been drawn from any midsized city on Earth.

  “Exit the truck and follow the path,” he ordered. “When you get to the conference center, take a seat in the auditorium.”

  We made our way to the center and joined the rest of our company.

  “Troops,” a corporal said from a podium at the front of a low stage, “please give a warm welcome to Master Sergeant First Class Veelenter, Charlie Company’s first sergeant.”

  A muscular purvast walked to the podium. He was tall even for a Guritain, and his presence was commanding. Even before he began speaking to the hundred and fifty of us who comprised Charlie Company, it was easy to see how he’d risen through the ranks.

  “My primary job here, soldiers, is to ensure that each of you graduates. That is my mission. I will not accept failure. Unless you become permanently disabled, you will complete the urban training courses with passing marks and in good standing. Nobody here has my permission to die until you’ve graduated. I want to be clear on this point. If you die during training, I will personally go to Golvin and drag your sorry ass back to base. I have a one hundred percent success rate sending trainees on to specialized school. Do not think about ruining my record. Is that understood?”

  Charlie Company hooted and hollered the affirmative.

  Callie and I had received assignments to the advanced sniper school after basic urban training, based on the experience we’d already acquired. Each of the programs lasted six months. With a small leave granted between courses, we were thirteen months away from being rotated back into the field.

  Whether war would be officia
lly declared again in a year was anybody’s guess, but terrorism was nightly entertainment on the evening news broadcasts, and one usually led to the other. I had little doubt that we’d be sent somewhere dangerous once we graduated, regardless of whether or not Gurt politicians made a legal declaration of war.

  Not that I was worried either way; killing scum was the reason we’d re-upped in the first place. In retrospect, that motivation should have been more bothersome to me. But at the time I was still living in a revenge-fueled fantasy of retribution and meting out final justice.

  I realized that killing couldn’t bring back those already dead. My children were lost to me forever, and nothing would ever bring me the relief I craved. But many things in life aren’t apparent until enough seasons pass, and obtaining certain types of wisdom comes at a steep and painful price.

  MSFC Veelenter continued his lecture. “Soldiers, Charlie Company has received a shipment of the newest version of TCI-Armor for this cycle. Everyone in this room will be among the very first to be equipped with the latest iteration of Balterlontic Corp’s most successful product. In a moment I’ll introduce Director Maalenty. He’ll explain the upgrades and changes, and then we’ll field a few questions. Keep them short and relevant. Orientation and fitting will begin tomorrow. And no, the new suits don’t accommodate jerking off; you’ll still have to do that on your downtime.”

  The room laughed politely.

  “I’d like to remind you of something important about this unit. Every single soldier here has been tested in combat. Everyone in this auditorium has lost friends and loved ones. Some of you have lost more. I’d like to believe that the cost we paid to defeat the Teds was worth the blood we shed. It seems, at least for today, that full-scale global wars have come to an end. Through strength and perseverance, we’ve achieved interplanetary peace.”

  He paused for effect, glaring at the room as though daring anyone to contradict him.

  “But as always, there are groups that refuse to accept this peace. Urban terrorism is the war we now face. We can’t fight these enemies the same way we fought the Teds. Launching a missile into the middle of a crowd to exterminate an enemy combatant is not an acceptable strategy. It’s a political minefield out there in the civilian world. One miscall, your career is over; kill the wrong civilian, you’ll find yourself in a cell, or worse.”

  First Sergeant Veelenter spoke for another hour. He covered the rules and expectations of the camp. We weren’t greenie troops fresh out of pre-college, but we still carried the designation of “trainee” while in the program. Rank, therefore, was meaningless except for a small distinction made for squad leaders.

  We were dismissed to the outdoors for a short break. There was a light rain falling, so we congregated under an awning and mixed with the other squads. What started as a joke – guessing which unit would be the top ranked – ended up turning into a challenge, and a few enterprising corporals began a betting pool. I don’t typically gamble, but when the rest of my team each put a week’s pay on the line, Callie and I figured we’d be poor sports if we didn’t join in.

  “I swear, Avery,” she said, shaking her head. “You’d better not keep up with that ‘I don’t want to stand out’ motto if we’re going to risk our hard-earned cash.”

  “What else are we going to spend money on?” I countered.

  “There are certain luxuries you can afford if you don’t squander your cash,” Neal, Sandie’s partner, argued. “I don’t think it’s so bad to save.”

  “Says the man who loves New Vegas,” Sandie said with a roll of her eyes.

  “Do as I say, not as I do,” he countered. “Besides, I’m net positive.”

  “Bull,” she said.

  “I swear.” He puffed out his chest and straightened his shoulders.

  Neal was shorter than average. I’ve found inferiority complexes based on height or weight among humans, especially when working with Gurts, to be the impetus for many counterproductive qualities. I made a mental note to watch for problems that could affect the team’s performance.

  The auditorium doors opened, and Callie nodded to me. “Time to go back inside,” she said. “And try not to doze during the lecturing. It’s embarrassing.”

  “I don’t…” I protested, but stopped at her crooked grin. “Fine. I’ll try to stay alert, but elbow my ribs if it looks like I’m drifting.”

  We filed back inside and took our seats. A distinguished man in a hand-tailored suit stood at the podium, watching us with measured concentration, his demeanor that of an affable wealthy landowner about to address his sharecroppers.

  Our first sergeant formally introduced him. “Charlie Company, this is Director Maalenty of Balterlontic Corporation. Please pay attention as he explains the latest hardware upgrades.”

  When Maalenty spoke, his voice reminded me of one of my former math teachers. “Troops, the latest upgrades in armored-suit technology have been designed to make Guritain Armored Infantry into the most capable fighters in history. The transformation of a soldier into a successful warrior while maintaining adequate survivability is an increasingly difficult challenge on the modern battlefield. Balterlontic engineers have worked tirelessly to perfect the balance between the life-saving attributes of the armored suit and its ability to assist you in seeking and destroying enemies on an ever-changing landscape.”

  He offered us a practiced smile.

  “I’m going to explain the major differences between the latest TCI-Armor and those models you’ve fought in. I want you to know what to expect tomorrow when you’re getting fitted and equipped. The first set of major upgrades will allow you to remain in-suit for up to sixty days without resupply.”

  Groans echoed throughout the auditorium.

  Maalenty held up a manicured hand. “Don’t see this as a negative,” he said. “It’s going to save lives. Mission times, I suspect, will remain the same. But the additional in-suit capacity will give soldiers more flexibility in parameter adjustment and greater chances for survival in emergency circumstances.”

  Which was, I thought, just a fancy way of saying we’d be stuck with longer assignments in the field. I’ve never been able to decide which group is better at bullshit: corporate flunkies, religious hucksters, career military mucky-mucks, or politicians.

  Probably a tie.

  Maalenty continued with his speech. “Another upgrade involves intravenous feeding, oxygenation, and hydration. You’ll find that your heart rate remains relatively stable, even under extreme stress and rapid tactical movement. The suit uses an upgraded Nutri-Gel, so you’ll still be breathing fluid instead of air; however, your breathing and heart rate will stay within a narrow range no matter what you’re subjected to. You’ll be able to run a five K without breaking a sweat or feeling winded.”

  He eyed the display screen on the podium and smiled again.

  “As part of that physiological-management upgrade, we’ve revved up the suit’s CPU. But computing remains limited because a computer – no matter how fast we make them – can’t think the way we can. Artificial intelligence has its place, but when inundated by thousands of bits of micro-information and forced to make instant decisions, the mind can’t be beaten.”

  The director lectured for another hour.

  I stayed awake for most of it.

  The next rain-drenched morning, we entered the medical building for fitting and calibration. Our mood was excited – in spite of our veteran status, we felt more like children expecting the present they’d asked for on Saint Volserander’s Day than hardened soldiers getting suited up.

  For many career soldiers, getting new gear was akin to sex, or at least watching their favorite team win a championship game. The anticipation of the power of a new weapon on the practice range was second only to using it to kill an enemy. When I walked into the facility that morning, it was as if I’d been transported through a portal into a parallel universe. My suffering became a distant memory, and a childlike euphoria gripped me.


  I walked cautiously to the demonstration model and ran my hand over the titanium-carbon-iridium composite like it was a priceless statue chiseled from ancient marble. A corporate operator watched us with expectant eyes and nodded approvingly as we took turns touching the purple-hued armor.

  The suit’s reticulated joints were composed of thousands of stacked rings. The operator demonstrated its movement and flexibility, and we watched in awe as the suit’s knees, elbows, wrists, and ankles moved as naturally as our own. The camouflage skin was so perfectly integrated it was impossible to see the photon collectors and emitters. As the armor moved and changed colors, the effect reminded me of a toxic octopus I’d seen in a public aquarium.

  With the camo engaged, the suit shifted shades and colors as it blended into the scenery.

  “Come, soldiers,” a tech said, breaking the spell of the moment. “In time, you’ll be taken for weapons demonstrations, but today we have to get you started in the molding lab.”

  I was measured and sent through a series of machines that created molds from my body. I was probed, prodded, and scanned. We spent a week in the medical facilities with no other duties required of us except our physical training. Surprisingly, the following week our training was reduced to half days. After four more days of boring lectures on protocols, tactics, map reading, and enemy craft identification, we were allowed a three-day pass.

  When we returned to duty on Monday morning, our training sergeant, Vabintine, informed us that our armor was ready. Fortunately, the catheter guaranteed it was impossible to piss myself because that was the only appropriate response to the encapsulated awesomeness of the newest TCI-Armor suit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  To win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.

  ~ Sun Tzu

  Fourteen months later

  Northern Guritain Territories, Earth